


Drain the Whole Sea

by Lapin



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Detective AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 18:22:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4489992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lapin/pseuds/Lapin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins has been comfortable in his quiet life, in his quiet shop, for years, his past as behind him as he can put it. Perhaps it's time for a bit of an adventure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drain the Whole Sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pariahsdream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pariahsdream/gifts).



> For Pariahsdream, who wanted something...well, I hope this is close enough to what you wanted?

It's almost five by the time Bilbo's had quite enough of what's going on by the till. He finishes stocking the wine, makes his way over, and clears his throat so both boys take notice of him. Ori blushes and makes himself look busy straightening the cigars. The blond lad in the police uniform leaning on the counter does no such thing. 

“Is there something I might help you with?” Bilbo asks. “Only it's getting to be time for us to lock up.” 

The lad doesn't look nearly old enough to be a police officer. He hardly looks old enough to be out of school. He does look terribly sure of himself though. “Sorry, only I'm supposed to be waiting here for someone.” He keeps looking at Ori instead of Bilbo, and oh, spare Bilbo from this nonsense, especially at this hour. “Seems he's late.”

“Yes, well, you'll just have to wait -” 

“Is there anything to eat?” He strides past Bilbo and towards a shelf, picking up a box of imported biscuits. “What about these? These any good, Ori?” 

Ori is tugging at one of his shabby little thread bracelets. “Fíli, you can't just eat things off the shelves.”

“Friend of yours?” Bilbo asks, making shooing gestures at the officer's wandering hands while Ori avoids Bilbo's eyes. The stranger isn't put off in the slightest by Bilbo, instead grabbing a different box and wandering further into the store, right as the bell jingles and another customer comes; a scruffy young man with a lit cigarette in his mouth. “Excuse me!” The nerve, really. “Put that out!” 

He looks down at Bilbo, smiling, and very cheerily put the cigarette out right on the antique wooden counter. “No trouble. Hey Ori. Am I late?” He spots the blond and calls to him, as though there's a need in the little shop. “Hey, Fíli! Thought you were going to give me a lift?” 

“You can read a timetable, can't you?” Now he has a bottle of wine he can't possibly afford, that he puts down on the counter. “What do you say Ori, ever had something that posh?” 

“Fíli, this is a shop,” Ori insists. “And my _job_. And you're in uniform.” 

Bilbo's had quite enough of the nonsense. He grabs the bottle off the counter, and puts it on the shelf behind him. Not where it goes, but he can fix later, or better, have Ori do it. “Listen to me, now,” he says, louder, so both of the intruders take notice of him. “This shop is closed, do you understand me?”

The bell rings a third time, and Bilbo turns, his temper frayed, and -

He closes his mouth. 

The new man is tall as well, around Bilbo's age, with grey starting to streak through his black hair and a short beard. He unzips his coat as he walks in, looking around the shop before he settles on the boys at the counter, nodding, then at Bilbo. “Are you Bilbo Baggins?” he asks. 

It is past five, and they are _closed_. “Yes,” he manages, instead of that. “Is there something I can help you with?” 

“Grey sent me. He said you could be of assistance,” the man says, folding his arms over his chest. “Where's Dwalin?” 

Bilbo has no idea who that person could be, but apparently the man was not speaking to him, because the blond police officer, Fíli, says, “Around the corner, at the bakery.” 

The dark-haired smoker boosts himself up to sit on Bilbo's counter. “We just got here.”

“Do you mind?” Bilbo demands, because the boy's boots are filthy and he's tapping his heels against the counter, and leaving dark, wet marks, and knocking dirt from the pavement and whatever else happened to be stuck to his boots onto Bilbo's scrubbed wooden floor. 

“Do I mind what?” he asks, leaning over so his elbows rested on his knees, his fingers interlocked. He's wearing a silver band on both middle fingers, with some sort of etched design. They were both well-polished, Bilbo noted, somewhere in the back of his mind, but they aren't silver. Cheap, stainless steel, and utterly disinteresting. Not that Bilbo is interested in that sort of thing. No, that part of him is quite in the past.

Quite.

Ori shoves the other boy in the back, not hard enough to dislodge him, but enough he looks over his shoulder at Ori, eyebrows raised. Ori, bless his soul, makes a gesture that firmly says, _down_ , and the boy obeys. None of them make any motions towards leaving though. 

But if Gandalf is involved, they might not be intending on leaving at all. “What exactly,” he says, to the man who seems to be in charge, “did Gandalf tell you? Just who are you?” 

A badge is flashed, and Bilbo wants tea. He needs a cup of tea very badly right this moment. Or perhaps a cigarette. Yes, that sounds lovely, a quiet smoke in his garden upstairs, without any police officers milling about, or _detective inspectors_ , as it were, invading his shop and touching his things. Nothing good ever came from associating with the police. 

Throwing him out isn't an option either, unfortunately. Bilbo remembers the conditions of his deal very well, unfortunately. “And what brings you to my shop? All of you?” 

The man, or Thorin Durin, according to the badge, who looks nothing like any DI Bilbo has ever met in his life, which was saying something, really, is looking at the dark-haired lad with a mildly curious sort of smile. “What _are_ you doing here, Kíli?” 

The lad shrugs. “I didn't have anything else to do, and Mum said to get out or she was going to murder me.” 

“This is a police matter,” Thorin says, looking around at Ori as well when he says, “Neither of you need to be here. You,” and now he looks at the other police officer, “did you bring what I asked?” 

He hands over a plain black messenger bag that Bilbo hadn't spotted, sitting on the floor beside the counter. “Compliments of Balin,” he says cheerfully. “That all?” 

“For now. Don't go far though.”

“Right.” The blond grabs his hat, and hitches his chin at Ori. “You ready?” 

Ori looks at Bilbo, playing with the bracelet again. “Can I go?” 

There's no point in keeping Ori here. Business is done for the day, at least the part Ori can be witness to. “Go on, then,” he says, nodding towards the door. “Make sure you do the totals and count the drawer in the morning.” Not that he thinks they'll be short or over by anything more than a pound. Ori might be a bit of a wreck sometimes, but he keeps count better than a calculator. “And tomorrow is Monday, so you need to be here early for shipment.” 

Ori nods, pulling his hoodie over his head. It's started to rain after all, Bilbo notes, looking towards the door. “I'll see you in the morning, then, Bilbo.” 

Bilbo watches the way Ori falls under the blond's arm as the three walk out, Bilbo following to lock the door and pull the shade. He'd known Ori had a boyfriend, of course, but he hadn't known the boyfriend was a police officer. That bears some considering. Not that he can afford to let Ori go, not really. His brother is one of Bilbo's best customers. But it does bear considering.

“What exactly are you needing?” Bilbo asks, deciding that's a problem for the morning, and stepping away from the door so he can lock the till and handle the problem at hand. 

“Documents.” The man holds up the bag. “Deeds of sale, a will.” 

That's odd. Not that Bilbo wouldn't know a fake, just that the police don't usually need Bilbo's help with that sort of thing. “Come upstairs, then,” he says, slipping the key in his pocket, and hoping this can be quick. If Bilbo had his way, he'd tell the man to leave now, and go upstairs to have a nice quiet evening.

If Gandalf sent the man though, that's not how his evening is going to go, not unless Bilbo wants to be in violation of his deal. He's starting to regret ever accepting it. Five years in prison surely couldn't have been so bad, and Bilbo is clever enough he might have been able to set himself up as something of a legal aide in there. 

But he did take the deal, so here he is, and here this man is, and Bilbo is probably not going to get his dinner anytime soon. 

The DI follows him up the stairs to the living area a little closer than he needs to, standing so close on the landing that Bilbo is very aware of how much taller and broader the man is. He's aware of his aftershave too, but that's neither here nor there. 

“Shoes off,” Bilbo orders, out of habit when he opens the door to his flat. He might not be able to stop people from dragging their dirty boots all over his shop floor, but they won't be doing it in the upstairs. He toes off his own shoes, and walks into the flat with the bag while the DI struggles out of his clunky boots. “So what exactly is this all about? Who's in charge of this one?” 

The man's socks have the dingy look of having been washed too many times, but at least he's wearing socks. Not all of Bilbo's uninvited guests have been so lucky. “I'm in charge of the investigation, as it stands,” he says, joining Bilbo at the dining room table, where Bilbo is going through the papers in the bag. “And this is about an inheritance dispute.”

“A what?” He almost packs the papers back up right then and there. “Are you joking?” 

“Not even a little.” The man seems insulted Bilbo would even ask. He's got his sleeves rolled up now, and Bilbo can see the tattoo on the inside of his forearm; a raven, almost Viking in design. “Look.” He rolls out a land map, showing what Bilbo presumes is the property in question. It's large, very large, and it looks to be almost an island. An estate of some sort, if Bilbo had to guess, from the size. “Fifteen years ago, the owner of this land died. Three days later, a complete stranger claimed to have complete ownership of it. He had a will, _this will_ , that named him as the sole inheritor, and had the man's family barred from the land. Even the possessions were left to him.” 

His voice has gone deeper, more forceful. _Thorin_. His identification said his name was Thorin. It suits him, Bilbo thinks now. “Perhaps he was close to the original owner.” 

“The original owner was my grandfather,” Thorin clarifies, and now Bilbo thinks he understands a little more. He wonders if this is even really a proper police investigation, or this man's personal crusade. Bilbo can't be getting himself involved in any crusades. “He loved our family. He loved this land. He never would have sold it to Drake, not even at the end.” Bilbo wants to ask what he means by that, but the words don't come out, and Thorin keeps speaking. “It's a fake. He forged this somehow, I know it.” He seems to catch himself, and Bilbo notices he's gripping the table so hard his knuckles are white. Thorin sees it too; he releases the edge and spreads his palms flat on the table, crinkling the paper. “This investigation went nowhere when it started. We didn't have the resources, and I had to take care of my family. Now I have the time.” He pauses. “And I can pay you very well for your help.” 

Bilbo is still unsure. Something about this has a bad air to it, that old feeling of doing something risky, something a bit dangerous, but a bit more. Just _more_ , somehow. He needs to speak with Gandalf, he thinks, make sure this isn't some wild goose chase, or something that will violate his deal with the law. “Excuse me,” he says, buying himself some time. “I need a cigarette.” 

Thorin doesn't stop him, but Bilbo can feel his eyes as he opens the door to his little terrace, watching Bilbo. 

The rain is coming down hard now, a proper autumn storm, and even though Bilbo is standing under the stone awning, his ankles are getting pinged with little drops. He lights a cigarette and takes a deep inhale, trying to get his bearings back. 

He hasn't had such an eventful evening in an age. And he certainly hasn't had anyone like Thorin in his flat in...well, he's never had anyone like Thorin in his flat, he thinks, willing himself not to look at the man. 

“Do you mind?” He's come up beside Bilbo, a cigarette of his own in hand. Bilbo shakes his head, and Thorin lights it, staying just in the doorway, out of the damp. “We've had people look before. Everyone turned us away. Grey was a friend of my grandfather's though. He recommended you.” He blows out of a stream of smoke, politely away from Bilbo. “You don't look like any forger I've ever seen. More like a proper grocer.” 

“I beg your pardon?” Bilbo isn't quite sure if it's an insult or not, and isn't really all that sure he cares either. 

“I'll trust Grey's word, at least in this case.” That smacks of some interesting history. “Will you help me or not?” 

Bilbo huffs, and tries to think straight. He finds himself looking at Thorin out of the corner of his eye, and he doesn't know why. Well, he could guess, but it's not just that. There's something about him Bilbo can't quite put his finger on, and he's not sure he likes that. Bilbo is used to understanding everything in his world, and he's been comfortable that way for awhile. The thrill of a good adventure isn't worth possibly getting himself into trouble again, and everything about this feels like absolute trouble. 

“I don't think I can,” he says, trying to convince himself he doesn't want to. 

Thorin's disappointed. It's obvious enough, but he has the look of someone used to the feeling. He stubs his cigarette out in the ashtray sitting on the windowsill, and steps back inside without saying anything else. When he starts to roll up his map and put his things away, and Bilbo almost manages to let him leave. 

Almost.

“It's been fifteen years,” he says, before he can stop himself, putting out the cigarette and coming back in, shutting the door behind him so the rain doesn't get on the hardwood. “You apparently haven't gotten anywhere in all this time, so why are you still trying?” 

Thorin looks at Bilbo, and in this light, Bilbo catches the colour. Blue. His shirt is the same dark blue, so maybe that's why Bilbo notices now, and not before, when he had his coat on. “Have you ever lost something?” Thorin asks. “Something important?” He doesn't mean a watch or a ring, Bilbo knows. 

He nods to the mantle above the old brick fireplace before he thinks better of it, where most of the pictures are, and to his surprise, Thorin actually goes to get a closer look. He picks up one photo, their wedding portrait, and Bilbo tenses, like some part of him really thinks Thorin is going to smash it to the ground or something. “They died when I was seventeen. It was a car crash.” He doesn't think he needs to say anything else about it. There's not really much else to say.

Orphaned at seventeen, with this shop and the cottage out in the country, and Bilbo suddenly had to be an adult. He had to get by, and so he'd used what he had. With his talent for writing and penmanship, and access to his father's vast collection, it had been almost too easy to create his first forgery. It had been a letter from the eighteen-hundreds, supposedly, written by some minor noble to another, and he'd sold it to a local museum. It had been so easy, he hadn't been able to resist doing it again and again, until finally, it hadn't been easy, and he'd been caught. 

Gandalf is really the only reason Bilbo didn't feel the full force of the consequences. 

Thorin puts the photo back carefully, right where it was, Bilbo still trying not to watch him. “It was our home. And it was stolen. My mother was unwell, and my sister already had her boys. My nephews can't even remember it, they were so small.” 

“You have nephews?” He doesn't know why that surprises him. It just does, for some reason. 

“You've just met them, actually,” Thorin replies. “Fíli's older. He became a police officer last year. Kíli is still in school.” He means the two from before, the police officer and the smoker. “They both try and help with all of this, as much as they can.” He smiles, almost. “Fíli is usually the more useful one.” 

Some of the papers are still on the table, right by Bilbo's hand. He doesn't remember walking over to them, but he can't help but look, his own curiosity too strong. Thinking of his parents has him thinking of what they would say about the whole matter. If his father ever got over his horror about just what Bilbo had gotten up to in his life, he would tell Bilbo to let Thorin walk out right now. His mother though, she wouldn't have, Bilbo doesn't think. 

And if he's being fair, his father wouldn't have been unmoved. He'd been a generous man.

He can tell himself 'til he's blue in the face that his interest has nothing to do with Thorin himself, but that'd be utter bollocks and he knows it. No point in lying to himself in his own head, at least. 

The maps tell Bilbo the property in question is somewhere up north, and a bit to the west. There's a few photographs in the stacks of papers, and though they're old, Bilbo gets a better idea of the place from it. It looks rocky, mostly, rocky and windswept and grand, and like nowhere Bilbo has ever been. 

Thorin is in one of the pictures. 

Bilbo looks up at him again, but Thorin's not watching him now, at least not openly. So Bilbo studies it for a long minute, taking in the changes. The back has a handwritten date, and Thorin's name and an unfamiliar one, _Dís_ , but nothing else. The Thorin in the photo is much younger, maybe around twenty, and standing with a young woman with dark, curly hair that reaches her waist. She's got the same nose as Thorin, so he thinks they could be related. She's pregnant, Bilbo thinks, but he wouldn't want to assume. 

He looks happy in the photo. Serious, but happy.

If Bilbo had any sense, he'd pack all of this up and not get involved. There's quite a few very official looking pieces of paper with a very imposing letterhead at the top amongst the pile, and while he doesn't recognise the name, he gets the feeling Drake, whoever he is, is not going to make any of this easy. 

It's ridiculous to even consider it. Deeds and the like were never his area. He forged manuscripts and letters of authenticity, and he conned universities and museums, and even the occasional private collector. This is something else. This is something very big. 

And yet, Gandalf sent Thorin to Bilbo. 

“I'm going to help you,” he says, settling himself on the matter, before he can change his mind again.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guess what?
> 
> I take [commissions](http://themarchrabbit.tumblr.com/commissions) now, for rock-bottom prices! Why? Because I still haven't found a new job yet, and this is all I've got.
> 
> And a reminder that if you donated to my Patreon, please contact me with your request via my Tumblr or here.


End file.
